Bart’s mother and father had had seven children in all. Another brother, Cuthbert, was in America and two of his siblings had died young.
His many nephews and nieces, for the Sadlers were a prolific family, stood awkwardly about, not yet quite accustomed to the newly enhanced status of an uncle who had always been regarded as a bit of an outsider, if not the black sheep of the family. Many of them scarcely remembered him, some had never known him.
As a family the Sadlers were close, but Bart had always been the one who stood apart, didn’t fit in. They were not even sure, in those far-off days, if he was honest and the scandal about Laurence Yetman, even if some of the facts were exaggerated, had left a nasty taste.
But now all was forgiven. Uncle Bart was a rich man, the owner of a very fine property, one of the finest in the district. He had had a gracious house restored to a very high standard, and everything about them glittered and shone, symbols of opulence as well as good taste.
Through the open doors a long buffet table could be glimpsed, small gilded supper tables and chairs scattered about. Liveried waiters moved discreetly among the guests with glasses of champagne. In the background a muted string orchestra played quietly. In the drive cars came and went depositing their guests from as far away as Bournemouth, Salisbury and Exeter. Everyone, it seemed, who Bart had ever known, however remote, had been invited and most had wanted to be there.
The guest who least wanted to be there, Sophie Turner, moved slowly along the line waiting to be welcomed by the host. In front of her was Hubert, behind her Ruth and Deborah. The three women had gone to Bath to be bought pretty dresses by Hubert Turner, who was determined that his family would not be shown up by the rest of the company.
Ruth, pert and pretty with fashionably short hair, had chosen an elegant gown of rose chiffon over taffeta, with a simple bodice, long sleeves and a straight calf-length skirt. The effect was one of sophistication, in contrast to her sister Deborah who, despite being two years older, contrived to look like a country maid with her long hair coiled into a large bun at the nape of her neck, festooned with tiny artificial flowers similar to the posies embroidered in her long dress of pale yellow organdie. The style was that of a simple shepherdess, with a round neck and buttons down to the waist, charming but too young for her, as though she wished to remain a child. Sophie wore a long dress of blue silk with no frills and flounces and a high collar which, combined with her plain hairstyle – no visit to the hairdresser for her – and the severity of her expression, enhanced by the pair of steel-rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose, made her look like a particularly hardhearted schoolmistress.
Bart took a long time welcoming Hubert, whose face was wreathed in smiles as he turned to bring forward his womenfolk. Sophie perfunctorily shook hands, grim-faced, not even looking into the eyes of the man who had once been her lover. A very slight, quizzical smile played on Bart’s lips as he let go her hand, and took that of Deborah, who did smile, and he murmured something to her which made her smile even more and she nodded, remembering the day they had met on the jetty.
“I am so glad you could come,” Bart whispered, squeezing her hand. “And your mother too, oh, yes, and your sister.” He turned to Ruth as if reluctant to let go of Deborah’s hand, but at last he did.
“I have not seen you, Ruth, since you were about six years old.”
“Except for the day of the christening.”
“Oh yes, but I don’t think at that time I realised who you were. I had just come home. How splendidly you two young girls have come on!”
Along the line Abel Yetman waited for Ruth with all the eagerness of a suitor, his head slightly forward from the line of people standing with Bart.
However, there were very few stragglers left. It was after nine and people had already begun eating, so Bart carefully shepherded the rector, his wife and family, through the doors into the reception room with its blazing chandeliers, tables groaning with food, and the string orchestra, tucked almost out of sight in a corner, playing airs from Rosamund by Schubert.
Sophie stood at the entrance to the room, scanning it for familiar faces. In fact there were very few. The normal citizens of Wenham, the people she encountered every day, farmers and their wives, shopkeepers, members of the parish, were not among those invited to such an important occasion. Now that the ordeal of greeting Bart was over she felt she could relax.
In fact it hadn’t been too bad. She had avoided his eyes, believed he’d smiled at her, but she had gone quickly on to plant a kiss on the cheek of Sarah Jane next to him. The comforting presence of a friend and near neighbour had helped to settle her, banish her fears. Why, after all, be afraid of the past, things that had happened so long ago? Tonight, she decided, after all, she would make an effort to enjoy herself. Carson and Connie she espied in a corner talking to the Chairman of the Town Council, Councillor Green. Elizabeth, looking extremely elegant in a most fashionable gown of silver cloth sparkling with sequins, was trailed by her husband gently mopping his perspiring brow, his evening dress looking a trifle on the tight side, his red neck bulging above his white, carelessly tied cravat.
But neither Eliza nor Dora were there nor, apparently, Lally, though somewhat to her surprise she saw Alexander, who was chatting to a pretty young girl Sophie didn’t know. Without interrupting Hubert, who was still talking animatedly to Bart, she made her way across the room where Carson and Connie, seeing her, excused themselves with some relief to Councillor Green and greeted her with an embrace.
Connie had good dress sense. She bought her clothes in Bristol and London, occasionally in Paris, and had chosen for this evening a cool, stylish off the shoulder evening gown in pale green crêpe-de-chine. Her style and elegance matched her husband, who looked almost absurdly handsome in evening dress. Sophie, who had not seen them for some time, enquired after the children, who were all well except little Netta who, she was told, had had a bad cold.
“It is quite amazing to see the turn-out,” Carson said pointing to the concourse in the room. “I didn’t know Bart knew so many people.”
“No Eliza,” Sophie said. “No Dora.”
“Lally wouldn’t come without them. Eliza is still very bitter about the way she was deceived over the house. Frankly, Aunt Sophie, I don’t know about you, but I think we should bury the past after all this time.”
Sophie looked sharply at Carson but could detect no double entendre in his meaning. Carson was a straightforward, simple man and, anyway, she doubted whether the scandal about Bart Sadler and herself had even reached him in those far-off days before the war when he was, for the most part, working in London.
“I believe Aunt Eliza got a very good price for the house,” Carson continued when Sophie seemed reluctant to reply. “Bart was so keen to have it; much better than she might otherwise have got. We all advised her to sell. Why not to Bart Sadler?” He looked around. “A man who has done so much to beautify it. I don’t believe it looked like this even when Julius first bought it and spent a lot of money doing it up.”
“So you too are going to be friendly with Bart?” Sophie’s tone was cynical.
“Why not? I have no war with him. I think the business with Laurence was exaggerated but, as I say, Aunt Sophie, we can’t bear grudges for ever.”
“Possibly not.” Sophie turned once again to look at the crowd and found herself face to face with Alexander who greeted her and Connie with a kiss.
“Why did your mother not come?” Connie enquired. “Surely she has no quarrel with Bart Sadler?”
“Mother didn’t wish to come because of Aunt Eliza. She may not agree with her, but she feels for her. I must say I think the whole thing is very silly. Aunt Eliza was looking for another property, anyway, and now that Dora is to have a baby she will have to find something soon.”
“Isn’t Dora ever going to return to her husband?” Connie asked. “I would have thought he would be thrilled and delighted. Does he know?”
Alexander
’s reply was tactful. “Dora never tells anyone what is on her mind; but she is an excellent teacher of dressage and I have enjoyed her company.”
Carson looked with interest, almost with a sense of fond pride, at the young man with whom he had always shared a special bond. Young Alexander, lacking a suitable father figure, had hero-worshipped Carson, always deferred to him and sought his approval for everything, maybe because he was a man in a family largely consisting of women. The two men bore a certain resemblance except for the fact that Alexander was dark-haired and dark-eyed, whereas Carson, though not so much now as in his youth, was fair-skinned, with blue eyes. In build and stature they were similar, and they seemed to have certain characteristics in common.
“You’re going up to Cambridge next week, I hear?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“And looking forward to it?”
“Very much. Mother says I can take my horses and she will pay for stables. I shall join the polo club.”
“And we’ll come and see you, and you can take us punting on the Cam,” Connie cried with delight.
“I’d love that, Aunt Connie.”
“I think you have a brilliant future ahead of you but,” Sophie placed a hand anxiously on his arm, “do take care, Alexander.”
The smile vanished from the young man’s face.
“But what do you mean, Aunt Sophie?”
“The world is a dangerous place. You will soon learn.”
Deborah stood against the wall, feeling a little fearful and out of place. She was that dreaded species: a wallflower. She should not have come. It was mischievous to have forced her mother too, and she felt she had inflicted pain. However, the meeting between her mother and Bart Sadler had been uneventful and her mother now seemed quite happy chatting over supper to Connie, Carson and Alexander at the far end of the room. She could have joined them if she wished, but she didn’t. Abel had immediately commandeered Ruth, and her stepfather was surrounded by a number of earnest-looking men, local notables or elders of the church, who Deborah didn’t know.
In fact she had come tonight because she thought she would know so few people. The gossips of the town who would never let her, or anybody if it came to that, forget their pasts would be tucked up in bed long ago.
Deborah had never been to an occasion like this, never seen men in white ties and tails and women in long evening dresses, even if some of them seemed uncomfortable and out of place, the women stitched into their gowns, the men prised into their suits. She had never been in a place as splendid as this, been offered champagne and plates piled high with delicious and unusual food.
She noticed that the members of the string orchestra were stealthily moving with their cumbersome instruments, and thought that was the end of the musical entertainment but, after a few minutes, the music began in another room and shortly after that Bart Sadler appeared through the crowd and, smiling down at her in a very kindly manner, put out his hand.
“Would you like to dance, Deborah? May I rescue the little shepherdess? Incidentally your dress is charming.”
“But ...” Deborah went scarlet, shook her head. “I can’t dance, Mr Sadler.”
“Neither can I.” He took her hand and with practised ease steered her through the crowd, through the double doors that led into the hall from where she could see the reception room from which the music came. One or two couples were also sauntering in that direction.
“You must call me Bart,” Bart whispered to her, his lips very close to her ear. “‘Mr Sadler’ makes me feel very old.” And as if enjoying the joke he tucked her hand in his.
They entered the room at the end of which the orchestra were now seated on a raised podium and the music was very different from Schubert: a slow foxtrot. A few couples were on the dance floor and, slipping his arm round her waist, Bart, with an almost casual familiarity, began to move in time to the music and to take her with him.
“Very slowly,” he murmured into her ear, his hand tightening round her waist. “No one will notice if we trip up. Are you enjoying yourself?” He leaned back and studied her carefully.
“I don’t believe you can’t dance.” She was aware of his arm skilfully steering her and found it was easy to keep in step with him.
“Well, let’s say I’m out of practice. You’re very pretty, you know. You don’t give yourself a chance, Deborah. A lovely young girl should have more fun. Look at your sister how she’s enjoying herself.” He nodded in the direction of Abel and Ruth, who were gazing into each other’s eyes as they moved in time to the music, oblivious of everything else.
“Ruth and Abel are going to be married,” Deborah said.
“Are they? That’s exciting.”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“Has it been announced?”
“No, but they have an understanding.”
“Do you like Abel?”
“Very much.”
“And you, Deborah, what plans do you have for the future?”
“None,” Deborah said, looking straight at him with an air of disarming frankness. “I don’t have any plans at all.”
“We must change all that,” Bart said and drew her ever so slightly closer to him.
Sarah Jane was mildly enjoying herself, much better, anyway than she had expected. For one thing it was nice being with her family again. Although they didn’t live very far away she so seldom saw them. She hadn’t seen her sister Maureen for years so, in a way, Bart was doing a good thing by bringing them all together. It was nice to sit over one of the supper tables with the family having a good chat, and the champagne was flowing. None of them could get over how well Bart had done. Extraordinary really. You couldn’t help wondering if he had come by it all honestly, but no one was asking.
She heard the dance music from next door and her foot tapped in time to the rhythm. She really hadn’t let herself go or enjoyed herself so much for years. In fact for many years, almost too many to count, she had felt isolated and alone despite the presence of her family, a devoted son like Abel and her two thoughtful daughters, a conscientious neighbour like Sophie, the frequent visits and a lot of financial help from her mother-in-law Eliza, and the support of all the people of the parish who had tried hard to sustain her over the years.
Sarah Jane Sadler had been an attractive, good-humoured, pleasant-natured farmer’s daughter when she married Laurence Yetman in the year 1903. In temperament, husband and wife were very alike: uncomplicated, hard working. They had three children and a happy family life until the year 1912 when Laurence Yetman went up into the woods with his dog and shot himself in the mouth.
It was almost impossible for Sarah Jane to cope with such a tragedy. In the morning she had lain next to the warm, vibrant body of a loving husband. By noon he was dead, his lifeless body carried back to his home.
Some people react in unforeseen ways to disaster and everyone would have expected Sarah Jane to be among the copers; but she wasn’t and only now, many many years later, did she show signs of even emerging from the chrysalis which had cocooned her from those she loved and the rest of the world.
Maybe it was forgiving Bart that was the catharsis. Yes, Bart was not really responsible for Laurence’s death. Laurence had killed himself. He could have survived bankruptcy with her support, the help of his mother and family, all of whom loved him. She began to see that act of suicide that happened so long ago as one of selfishness, a lack of trust in herself and the family, a weakness that robbed her of her youth, almost of her own life. Years had been lost to grieving over Laurence.
Now talking to her family, drinking the heady wine and hearing the music, she suddenly felt like dancing. She felt, truth to tell, a little bit tipsy. On the outskirts of the family group, listening but not really participating because he didn’t know anyone, sat a young man with curly brown hair, warm brown eyes and an engaging, rather shy smile. She only knew him through her son Abel with whom he worked, and they had once entertained him to dinner at Riversmead.
“Why, Mrs Yetman.” The young man appeared confused and half rose putting a hand nervously to adjust his white cravat.
“I know I’m too old for you. There are lots of pretty girls, but I just feel like a turn on the dance floor.” She looked at her brothers with their wives, her sister with her husband. Abel with Ruth. “They all have partners.”
Solomon Palmer gallantly extended his hand and grasped hers.
“I’m not very good.”
“I haven’t danced for years,” she said as together they walked towards the door. “I’m very out of practice.” She stood for a moment in the hall looking at the great double staircase leading to the first floor, its highly polished balustrade and ornate twin newell posts reflecting the myriad lights of the glittering chandelier suspended from the ceiling. “It’s a magnificent place, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Solomon said enthusiastically, trying to toss a wayward piece of hair out of his eyes. His face was very youthful, almost as though he had no beard; his features strong and clear-cut. Sarah Jane thought him very handsome. Neither of her daughters had a beau. They had been sent away to school after their father died, Eliza paying the fees, and thought themselves a bit superior to the local men, most of them the sons of farmers and tradesmen. Martha was twenty-three, Felicity twenty-one. Neither of them were beauties but they were nice-looking, well-educated young women. The trouble was, of course, so many suitable men had died in the war. Maybe, Sarah Jane thought momentarily, stifling a feeling of guilt, she should have suggested that Solomon danced with one of her daughters. But he had looked so lonely and a little shy. Anyway her daughters were nowhere to be seen, probably busy enjoying their supper with cronies from the town, or people introduced to them by their uncle, Bart.
Past Love (Part Four of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 11
